The sheriff’s deputy is a philosopher, musing on love as he offers directions. The clerk is the matriarch, keeping a lid on the happy chaos. And the esteemed jurists–on Valentine’s Day, they call themselves the “love judges.”
On the busiest day of the year at marriage court in the Cook County clerk’s office downtown, they stood in a swirling sea of love–more than 200 anxious couples, some grooms wearing fedoras, some brides dressed in sneakers, all finding their way through the utterly unfamiliar.
For the lovelorn, Valentine’s Day can drag on at a painful crawl. At marriage court, it was a choreographed blur. Each ceremony had to move with assembly-line efficiency, in order to complete all the weddings by the 5 p.m. closing time.
While most of their friends settled for chocolate or teddy bears, these brides got a day to remember. The grooms got an anniversary date they won’t forget. Courthouse entrepreneurs got a one-day bonanza.
And the courthouse regulars seemed to thrive on the matrimonial spectacle.
“This is the best job in the whole wide world. All you see are happy people,” said Judge Bob Balanoff, who spent $60 last weekend on Valentine’s Day decorations for his office.
For Ranshia Taylor, 24, and McKinley Bell, 22, it all began with the ham sandwich of love.
The year was 2001. He was an assistant manager at a Jewel, she was a deli clerk. Taylor was eating a sandwich during her break. Bell walked over and offered to buy her another.
Taylor was not looking for seconds, or for a relationship. But Bell persisted, and three weeks later they had their first kiss.
On Monday, a little more than three years after their deli dalliance, they stood outside Judge Joel L. Greenblatt’s office.
“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” said Greenblatt, waving them into chambers. “You guys look absolutely smashing today.”
The ceremony moved quickly. To love her, honor and keep her? Yes, I do. Through health, sickness and prosperity? Yes, I do.
Three minutes elapsed between “Do you take this woman…” and “… husband and wife.” Bell and the new Ranshia Bell kissed long enough for the cameras to flash twice.
Mike Walton stood next to the judge, video camera in hand. He zoomed in to show the sparkling rings.
Walton, who runs a video production company, decided the best business on Valentine’s Day would be selling impromptu videos at marriage court. Walton promised “No wait, on the spot, VHS format”–all for $20.
As the Bells walked out the door, weaving through the crowd, Walton followed them, focused on the beaming couple. By noon, he had sold 30 tapes.
The Bells’ journey took them through the clerk’s office, past 39-year veteran Joan Helie. As the longest-serving clerk at marriage court, Helie said she has seen at least 300,000 couples wed. She worked quickly, answering anxious queries with reassuring certainty.
On Monday, she pasted red heart-shape stickers on each of the marriage certificates. And she wouldn’t even entertain a question about divorce–the dreaded “D” word she has forbidden in her realm.
“Ninety-eight percent of the people here are very happy,” said Helie, who was married 46 years before her husband died. “Then you have [their] mothers, who are too happy.”
Beyond Helie’s domain, out in the hallway, stood a stoic Deputy Terrence Camodeca of the Cook County Sheriff’s Police Department. He directed traffic with quiet authority, offering a businesslike handshake to couples as they passed by.
Camodeca, 39, blond and youthful-looking, offered the Bells some crisp words of congratulations, and then took time out to ponder the journey upon which they, and so many others, were embarking.
“Life is a long road and it shouldn’t be walked alone,” said Camodeca. So far, he has not taken his own advice.
“I think marriage is a beautiful sacrament, and maybe one day I’ll embrace it. Hi, do you have your marriage license?” he said, abruptly switching to a new audience and pointing a couple in the right direction.
Camodeca has been on the force for 10 years and has seen his share of sadness and despair while fulfilling a deputy’s other duties.
“It’s nice to be put somewhere else,” he said. “You go from doom and gloom to bride and groom.”
And bride and groom, and bride and groom, and bride and groom. The crowd, which thinned out during the lunch hour, intensified in the early afternoon.
On most weekdays, one judge is enough to preside over all the weddings. On Monday, three judges were at work.
Next door to Greenblatt’s office, Balanoff, 49, with short gray hair and a dangling earring on his left lobe, kept up a steady banter.
Two months into his position as a Cook County Circuit Court judge, Balanoff has presided mostly over traffic and tort contract cases. On this day, there were no verdicts, restraining orders or settlements.
“It’s all new and exciting to me, just like marriage,” he said.
He read from a plastic-covered sheet with the heading “Suggested Wedding Ceremony.” It’s a 183-word script that allows for improvisation. One section talks about the ring as having “neither a beginning nor an end.”
So Balanoff took a solemn moment to explain the ring’s significance to Yvette Huddleston, 32, and Larvell Griffin, 33.
The two have known each other for 10 years and are raising four children together. Griffin proposed a month ago. Huddleston agreed to be married because, she explained, Griffin is sweet and he makes great meatloaf.
They took the day off from the day-care center where they both work.
Balanoff averaged about two minutes per couple. One wedding took 57 seconds from start to finish.
In that time, Balanoff also acted as photographer, caterer and counselor. He always complimented the bride’s outfit to make her feel comfortable. He offered to take pictures of the couples at the end. And before each couple left, Balanoff reached into his drawer and handed out a Hershey’s kiss.
“You get a kiss from the judge,” he said. “In this day and age, it’s nothing but a piece of candy.”
With that, the next couple stepped in, just seconds away from holy matrimony.
